into oblivion. "Eat, you fool, and drink, you fool, and be merry,--you
fool,--for to-morrow--_even you,--Lendicott R. Faber--may have to die_!"
brawled and re-brawled through his mind like a ribald phonograph tune.

At the edge of the bottom step a precipitous lilac branch that must have
budded and bloomed in a single hour smote him stingingly across his
cheek. "Laggard!" taunted the lilac branch.

With the first crunching grit of gravel under his feet, something
transcendently naked and unashamed that was neither Brazen Sorrow nor
Brazen Pain thrilled across his startled consciousness. Over the
rolling, marshy meadow, beyond the succulent willow-hedge that hid the
winding river, up from some fluent, slim canoe, out from a chorus of
virile young tenor voices, a little passionate Love Song--divinely
tender--most incomparably innocent--came stealing palpitantly forth into
that inflammable Spring world without a single vestige of accompaniment
on it!

Kiss me, Sweet, the Spring is here,
And Love is Lord of you and me,
There's no bird in brake or brere,
But to his little mate sings he,
"Kiss me, Sweet, the Spring is here
And Love is Lord of you--and me!"

Wrenched like a sob out of his own lost youth the Senior Surgeon's
faltering college memories took up the old refrain.

As I go singing, to my dear,
"Kiss me, Sweet, the Spring is here,